Frisson
by nowlifeissweetlikecinnamon
Summary: Three years have passed but "the fall" still feels like a fresh wound lingering on John's skin. After years of despondent routines and the depleting possibilities of hope, John faces the return of his best friend. New adventures and mended relationships shape and rebuild the lives of John Watson and Sherlock Holmes, a team, scarred by the past, yet indestructible to the future.


**A/N: This is the first part to my multi- chapter fanfiction. This chapter is quite short, but the next few will be significantly longer (being that this is just an introduction) Anyways, I hope you enjoy the story, and I will try and update once a week!**

**Happy reading :)**

The air in 221B was cold and slightly dampened by the autumn rain that fell from the night previous. It was morning and as dawn had broken, like it did each day, this had acted as John's alarm clock for the past three years. His sleeping patterns were decrepit and left him exhausted no matter how long, or how heavy he managed to doze off for. He always felt tired, /always/.

John rustled himself from under his bed sheets that he had forgotten to change seven weeks in a row. Mundane things like washing the dishes and going to the grocers have been slowly becoming less important to John, not that he was ever the most unkempt of people.

Rubbing his face weakly in attempt to clear the post-sleep fogginess from his eyes, John stood up from his bed and walked down the stairs with a fatigued gait. He shuffled his feet towards the kitchen wearing his grubby, unwashed flannel pajama bottoms, dragging slightly behind his ankles on the floor, which had built up a faint rim of dust along the hem from the repeated sweeping of the floor each morning, and his grey cotton shirt that had the faded image of a Union Jack.

The turn of the tap, the pop of the toaster and the click of the kettle had woken John up rather moderately, as he followed his 'every-other-morning' routine of eating breakfast. John was thin, not too thin for someone to see his ribcage, but the thinness one would get when they began to have the impression that eating was becoming irrelevant.

John buzzed around the kitchen collecting the components of his semi-nourishing breakfast and walked towards the lounge to sit in his armchair that had become well worn as a result of his lack of employment. John had left his job at the surgery after Sherlock jumped. Even now, three years later, the wound felt too fresh to be out in public for extended periods of time. John raised his freshly made toast to his mouth, about to finally get some long overdue energy in his body from his detrimental 'every-other-day' eating habits.

He was alone in his flat and solitude was hard, John never took it well. He needed someone to care for. That is who John Watson is. He lives to care, and to serve others, and to be there for his friends. But since Sherlock was gone, he had no one to look after, to protect. It was Johns turn to be protected, but his grief pushed his closest friends distantly further from himself. Solitude, John's kryptonite.

John raised a heavy eye to an empty leather chair across from him, rimmed with tubes of metal that sloped in a downward fashion to become it's legs. Empty, it was always empty. The last time the chair was used, Sherlock was seated in it. After the fall, a few people stopped by to give their condolences to John. Greg Lestrade had come over that day to pay his respects, even though his relationship with the detective was far from immaculate, he always thought he was a good man. The day Lestrade arrived at the flat, he walked towards Sherlock's lounge chair, nearly about to take a seat, John snapped at Greg in time before he sat himself in the recently deceased detectives armchair.  
But that was it. All it took for John to become conscious of the fact that his best friend was gone, was the realization of Sherlock never to be seated in that chair again. Every day in their designated spots, they shared their stories. Sherlock might not listen to John and vice versa, but they knew they were there. They had someone. John had someone. Each and every conversation John shared with the detective while seated parallel to one another, flashed by in one monstrous thought, sending his distressed rage in an ascending spiral. This was the last time John had seen Greg. His rage pushing those close to him away. Even ones thought to be inseparable, began to drift.

John put the toast back on his plate, yet again, another loss of appetite and feeling crestfallen. He took in a sharp breath and squeezed his eyes tight as if he wanted them to become permanently locked in their current position. His eyelids fighting against the tears that so desperately wants to escape, but they quickly lose the battle against Johns developed ability to stifle his tears in a matter of seconds. John's brain worked faster than his body could respond and hastily stood up from his chair and sat on the couch that him and the detective used to share. He leaned back, resting on the Union Jack pillow. He missed Sherlock greatly, and it was blatantly clear in every day for the past three years.

There was a knock on the lounge door. Mrs. Hudson rarely stopped by, maybe once every third day now. She knows that John had developed a short temper and was worried she might slip up and mention his name, sending him further into grief.

"Hoo hoo. John dear, would you like a cuppa?" Mrs. Hudson stared at the man sitting with his head in his hands on the lounge sofa rubbing at his eyes roughly with his index fingers. John raised his head from his hands, eyes red from irritation.

"Thank you Mrs. Hudson, but I'm alright." Being that John had attempted to make himself some tea earlier this morning but failed to drink it, this was an obvious answer for him. Mrs. Hudson quickly turned around to walk down the stairs and head over to her flat. She really wanted to help John, but know one knew how these days.

John was alone, yet again. Before John could place his head back down to his hands, he sees his laptop sitting on a stack of papers and bills that began to pile up as the months went by without a job. He hasn't touched his blog since the fall, but something deep within John told him to write.

"Maybe this will help". John muttered to himself. He was never keen on finding something to subdue his depression, but today was different. Three years of routine, repetition, and depression. 'It was time for change' John thought.

He stood up to reach for the laptop and brought it to his lap on the couch. Pressing the button to open the lid, the brightness emitted form the screen was enough to make John squint for a few seconds. He opened his eyes once he adjusted to the light; spots remained I his line of sight, but faded as his eyes fixed on the screen.  
John opened his browser. This was not good.

"Oh god, no…No!" John shouted. His Internet was open on Sherlock's website. John's heart pumped with a ferociously unsteady beat. Before nearly collapsing, John shut the lid with such haste and force; he couldn't be bothered to check if the machine was still functioning. He fell backwards onto the sofa, the height of him only taking up three quarters of the length of cushions. "Go away…just…go away." Pleading desperately for his sanity and relief from this torment, John sat up. He wanted to fight this and he wanted to become who he used to be. So be it, without Sherlock. Time was running slow, three years of trying to do just that, to forget. But John realized he couldn't forget, he could cope and coping was just as good as anything, right?

"Cope. I need to cope. Right…coping." John said, not knowing where to begin. Staring down at the machine that might as well be broken, Weak hands reaching out in front of him, picking up the laptop that now, upon inspection had a dented right corner on the lid.

'Breathe. Just breathe, John." motivating himself to do the inevitable. 'Click', the computer was open. John braced himself with harsh breaths, aware of the reminders of his deceased friend to appear before his eyes within a matter of seconds.

/The Science Of Deduction/ Each and every syllable of the masthead, feeling like an impalement to his heart.


End file.
